


Lucky Break

by JHSC



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Confessions, M/M, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Sickfic, dog sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8678299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHSC/pseuds/JHSC
Summary: Phil doesn't get to go on the mission because he's sick. Lucky doesn't get to go on the mission because he's a dog.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura Kaye (laurakaye)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/gifts).



> [Laura Kaye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye) gave me a prompt. Then this happened.

"I'm fine," Phil says, and tries (and fails) to hold back another hacking cough.

  
Phil is not fine.

  
"You're totally fine," Clint replies, and Phil hates him just a little for saying it without sounding patronizing in the least. It's still patronizing as hell.

  
"It's just a cough," Phil adds, slouching down further on Clint's couch and tugging the knitted throw blanket tighter around his shoulders. Clint had swept him out of Medical and down to Brooklyn an hour ago, and Phil is still reeling from the way he'd managed to be supremely gentle and yet brook no argument. Clint is more devious than he looks.

  
"Totally just a cough," Clint agrees good-naturedly. He's setting out medicines on the coffee table: guaifenesin for the cough, pseudoephedrine for the drip, acetaminophen for the fever…. And amoxicillin for the devastating case of bronchitis that Phil has let fester for the past two weeks. It's knocked him out on his ass and out of the lead role on Clint's next mission, which is exactly the situation he'd been trying to avoid by keeping far, far away from Medical.

  
But he's been to Medical, now, and on two weeks of mandatory downtime. Clint and Natasha are still going, though. Sitwell is running point as Phil's hand-picked replacement, and there hasn't been a single hitch in the entire hand-off. The system is working as it ought, and his agents will be perfectly fine without him there.

  
But still. He doesn't want to be an inconvenience to anyone. Certainly not to Clint, who so often counts on him to be on top of everything. He's been ignoring this…. Cough…. In part because he doesn't want to let Clint down.

  
Phil opens his mouth to protest some more, but instead gets hit with a deep, hacking cough that has him folded nearly double for more than a minute. When the spasm finally ends, he flops on his side and looks up at Clint from the couch cushions.

  
"Totally just a cough," Clint says, smiling gently. He sits down next to Phil, and with a little bit of maneuvering, soon has Phil's head propped up on his thigh. He cards his fingers through Phil's hair a few times. "I'm glad you'll be here to keep Lucky company, though. He pines while I'm gone. You two can pine together, this time."

  
Phil glances over at the armchair, where said dog is curled up in a ball and staring at them through half-lidded eyes. "He hates me."

  
"He just needs the chance to get to know you," Clint replies, hand not stopping its trek across Phil's scalp, soothing away some of the tension there. "How long have we been together now?"

  
"Four or five months," Phil mumbles. Five months, one week, and three days, but he's not going to let on that he's been keeping such a close track of the progress of their relationship. Only a very short amount of that time has been spent here in Clint's loft - more specifically, in the bedroom with the door closed. The rest of the time, they've been on base, on missions, en route to missions, taking a few extra days in hotels at the end of missions, and getting reacquainted after missions in the king-sized bed in Phil's apartment.

  
Clint smiles again. "That's not long at all. A couple days together and you'll be best friends, you'll see."

  
Phil grunts. The mission is supposed to last a week. Not that that means anything where missions are concerned. But that's a full seven days where Clint will be out of contact and Phil will be left alone with a dog he doesn't really know. Why is he doing this again?

  
(Because Clint had asked. Because Clint wanted Phil to not be alone the whole time, to have good neighbors looking in on him, to have a support network. Phil is sometimes struck speechless by the kind, thoughtful man Clint turned out to be underneath the facade of absent-mindedness and self-deprecation.)

  
They sit like that for another few minutes, and Phil is lulled into a light doze from the way Clint's gentle touch relaxes him. Then Clint's hand finally stops, and he says, "Alright. I've gotta go. Team's waiting."

  
Raising his head a bit, Phil gives Clint room to ease out of his seat. Clint stretches, reaching toward the ceiling, bends down to touch his toes, and then twists to plant a kiss right smack on Phil's left temple. "Simone will be coming by with dinner, and Jerry's on walkies duty. Take your medicine and try to relax, okay?"

  
"Okay," Phil grumbles. Then -- because he has to, because he won't be there to make sure it happens -- he adds, "Stay safe."

  
Clint smiles down at him, and if Phil were in a better mood, he would describe it as indulgent. Besotted, even. "Will do."

  
Then he ruffles Lucky's ears, says, "Take care of 'im, Luck," and is out the door.

  
Lucky stares after him for a second, then leaps down from the chair and runs to the now-closed door. He scrabbles at the wood, whining, and rears up to paw at the door knob.

  
"Down, Luck!" Clint's voice echoes from the hallway.

  
Lucky scratches at the door again before pausing, tilting his head side to side with his ears perked up. Then he races across the living room to the window overlooking the street, evidently watching Clint leave the building and walk down the block. Then he races back to the door, pawing the handle again, whining louder than before.

  
"Down, Luck!" Phil rasps, before another coughing fit takes over and has him grabbing for the tissue box. Bronchitis is the _worst_.

  
When he surfaces again and drinks from one of the four bottles of water Clint has left within easy reach, Lucky is sitting ramrod straight, staring out the window with his ears perked. Watching for Clint to come back. Phil understands the feeling.

  
"He's going to be a little while," Phil says, and pats the couch cushion next to him. "Come here. Come lay down."

  
Other than a twitch of his left ear, Lucky ignores him and continues his staring contest with the Brooklyn streets.

  
"Great," Phil huffs. He readjusts his blanket and then grabs the remote.

  
\--

  
When Phil wakes up a few hours later, Lucky is sprawled on the floor in front of the door, head on his paws. When Phil calls him over again, he lets out a deep sigh and doesn't move.

  
\--

  
Lucky ignores him in the morning, but Phil doesn't take it personally because he is a grown adult who does not put emotional stock in pets, and also Lucky is obviously just grumpy because Clint is gone. That bit of magical thinking holds just until Jerry shows up for morning walkies, and Lucky bestows upon him all of the energy and excitement he isn't giving Phil. As soon as Jerry walks in the door, Lucky is on him, jumping and prancing and planting doggie kisses on every available bit of skin.

  
"Hey Phil -- Down, Lucky, down -- how you feeling?" Jerry asks, pushing the dog off of his person with little effect.

  
Phil just took his morning dose of medicines and is waiting for them to kick in. He feels feverish and chilled and drippy and full of… gunk. "Pretty good," he lies. "Feeling a lot better."

  
"Good to hear," Jerry replies, obviously not buying his act for a hot second but too polite to point it out. "Well, we'll be back in an hour or so. See ya."

  
"Have fun," Phil says, and watches as Jerry clips the leash on Lucky's collar. Lucky prances around Jerry's feet while the man just stands there, posture relaxed, leash loose and dragging on the floor. He stares at the dog, shushing him a little bit when he jumps again. After a minute or two, Lucky seems to get the hint, sitting down and staring up at Jerry with a big grin.

  
"Good," Jerry says. He reaches behind himself for the door handle and opens the door an inch, stopping the second Lucky jumps back to his feet. He blocks the opening with his body when Lucky tries to nose his way through the crack and shushes him again.

  
Once Lucky's butt is back on the floor, Jerry opens the door further. The blocking, shushing, sitting song and dance continues until the door is all the way open and Lucky is still sitting in place, staring up at Jerry.

  
"Okay, let's go," Jerry finally says, and the two of them finally leave the apartment at a leisurely pace.

  
Phil shakes his head and lays back down. Just watching that whole thing was exhausting.

  
\--

  
Lucky comes back panting, tongue lolling out of his mouth and a big grin plastered across his face. Jerry refills both his water dish and food bowl before heading out with a promise to be back this evening. Lucky drinks from his dish -- sloppily, making Phil grateful to be out of the the splash zone -- then does a tour of the apartment. He sniffs through every corner, spends a good thirty seconds on a dirty sock Clint left under the kitchen island, and then approaches Phil in a deep curve. He passes just out of reach of Phil's questing hand and sticks his head straight into the small trash can Phil's been keeping next to the couch for dirty tissues.

  
"Hey!" Phil scolds, leaning forward to reach for the dog but failing to make contact. "Leave that alone!"

  
Lucky pulls his head out, used tissue in his mouth, and shoots Phil a baleful look. He trots over to the armchair, jumps onto it, sits down, and proceeds to rip the tissue into tiny pieces without, seemingly, eating any of it.

  
"Is that what you want to do to my face?" Phil asks him, not even bothering to try to get the stuff away from Lucky. He's already way too slow, and added with the bout of vertigo he's been dealing with all day, there's no way he'd win.

  
Lucky doesn't respond. Phil shakes his head at himself, and then wishes he didn't when all the liquid in his sinuses starts to slosh around. He sighs and checks the clock. Another hour and he can take more medicine, and then he'll be one day closer to Clint coming home.

  
Coming home to find that Phil still hasn't managed to befriend his beloved dog. Coming home to find out that maybe Phil doesn't care enough to try. Coming home to assume that maybe if Phil can't make that kind of emotional connection with an animal, maybe he's incapable of any kind of emotional connection at all.

  
Five months, one week and four days, now, and Phil keeps waiting to be shown the door.

  
\--

  
"Down, Lucky," Phil hears, and he claws his way back to unfortunate, groggy, congested consciousness to find Simone in the kitchen, holding a small sauce pot above her head and out of Lucky's reach. "Down, not for you."

  
"Hey, Simone," Phil calls out, and then allows the requisite coughing fit to wash over him, take over his existence until it finally deigns to end. He realizes he's getting quite zen about the whole thing. Or the coughing is killing off brain cells.

  
When he opens his eyes again, Simone is standing in front of him with a glass of ginger ale. He takes it with a quiet thank-you, and she says, "There's chicken and dumplings in a pot on the stove, you can serve yourself. Jerry will bring me the pot in the morning, so don't worry about it. Anything you need before I head back out?"

  
Phil takes a long drink of the ginger ale, and then clears his throat. "No, thank you, I think I'm all set."

  
Lucky chooses that moment to finish his inspection of the pot that's sitting on the back burner out of reach. He trots up to Simone, circles around her legs like a cat, and then squeezes his body into the space between her legs. She shifts to give him more room, and he pushes forward until he's in the optimal position for her to reach down and scratch his rear end. She obliges, and asks, "What's the matter, Lucky? Phil too sick to give you good scratches?"

  
"He won't let me," Phil grumbles. "He won't come when I call, and when I try to pet him, he just wanders off."

  
"Aw, poor Phil," Simone says, obviously directing her words to Lucky. Lucky does another lap around her legs and then squeezes between them again for more butt scratches.

  
Simone glances back up at Phil. "He probably knows you're sick and doesn't want you to move around too much. Dogs are smart like that."

  
"Maybe," Phil concedes. He doesn't quite believe it, but he doesn't have the energy to argue about why his boyfriend's dog hates him. He fears the conversation may wander far too close to why he's so worried about a dog's feelings when it comes to his relationship with Clint. Simone will probably tell him he's insecure. Which he already knows, thank you.

  
"I'll be back tomorrow," Simone says, rolling her eyes anyway and heading for the door. "Goulash okay?"

  
Hopefully by tomorrow he'll be able to taste things again. "Sounds great."

  
\--

  
When his cell phone chimes with Clint's ringtone, Phil dives for it and knocks half the medicine bottles off the coffee table in the process.

  
"Hey," he says, exasperated with himself and the mess he's surrounded himself with. He's a sick, phlegmy human disaster.

  
"Hey!" Clint's voice is bright and cheerful and a striking contrast to everything else in Phil's world right now, and it soothes him like a warm cup of tea (with a shot of whiskey). "Did I wake you up?"

  
"No, I was awake," Phil says. He was only half-asleep, so he figures it's only half a lie, and he doesn't want Clint to decide Phil needs to rest more than he needs to hear his voice.

  
"Oh good," Clint says with obvious relief. "I spent a few minutes doing the whole should I call, should I not call? thing. Glad I got it right."

  
"You should always call," Phil says, and then winces silently at how lonely and needy he must sound. Being sick has brought every negative emotion he's ever felt to the forefront of his mind, and he's terrified of overwhelming Clint and driving him away.

  
He hears the smile in Clint's voice when he responds, "Duly noted."

  
"Are you all set up on location?" he asks, desperate for a subject change.

  
"Yep! I just got off shift, thought I'd check in and see if you're still fine." Clint says it with such good humor that some of his attitude starts to seep into Phil's skin, making him feel almost like a cat stretched out in a patch of sunlight.

  
"I'm still totally fine," he says, and feels himself smiling around the words. Clint has that effect on him. "Except for the bronchitis. Other than that, I'm in perfect health."

  
"I am glad to hear that you are in perfect health, with the small, minor, inconsequential exception of your acute bronchitis," Clint replies. Then, of course, he ruins it all by asking, "How's the dog?"

  
Phil glances over at Lucky, who is currently curled up in the armchair again. "He misses you," he replies honestly.

  
"Aww, dog. Jerry give him his walks today? Simone give him butt scratches?"

  
"Yes to both, though I really don't understand the appeal of the butt scratches."

  
"I'll demonstrate when I get home," Clint says, full of laughter. "How are you and him getting along?"

  
Phil sighs, and that's enough to irritate his lungs into another coughing fit. He holds the phone away from himself while he works through it, and then brings it back up to his ear once he gets his breath back (and quietly spits in the trash can. Bronchitis _sucks_ ).

  
"That was eight seconds shorter than the last fit I witnessed, so you must be getting a little better," Clint observes.

  
"One hopes," Phil replies. "Hang on another sec."

  
He puts the phone back down and blows his nose. He spares a moment to be mortified by the amount of body fluids Clint is currently witness to just over the phone. He'll have to be sure to clean up the mountains of tissues distributed around the apartment before Clint gets home.

  
"I'm back," he says, throwing the wad of tissues in the trash. Lucky lifts up his head to watch it sail through the air, and Phil says, "No, no more trash."

  
Lucky rests his head back down on his paws. Over the phone line, Clint chuckles.

  
"I'm not avoiding the question," Phil tells him. "It's just that I'm sleeping a lot, and when I'm awake he's ignoring me. So I don't know how to answer."

  
"Mmm, sounds like you're getting along, but not, you know, getting along."

  
"Yeah," Phil whispers.

  
"That bother you?" Clint asks, gently, like they're having a Real Relationship Talk, rather than just discussing the dog. They don't have either type of conversation very often. Phil thinks it's because he's afraid of what they'll say. The image of being shown through an open door, of it closing and locking behind him, always looms large in the back of his mind.

  
He takes a quick breath, and bursts out, "I don't want him to not like me. He's your dog. He's yours. If I'm going to be around, if I'm going to, to stay, I want him to like me."

  
Phil trails off, surprised and utterly mortified by his accidental fit of too-much-honesty, and unwilling to keep talking and potentially making it worse.

  
Clint's silence is packed with meaning, but Phil's too fuzzy-headed with medication and sickness to figure out if that's good or bad. The pause lasts a few more beats, and then Clint says, "Well, we'll just have to get him to like you, then, won't we?"

  
"I don't know how." Another embarrassing admission. God, he needs to get off the phone, now.

  
"Ok, here's what you do," Clint says, and it's his Leadership Voice, the confident tone that set Phil's motor running the very first time he heard it. Clint's gotten him in a lot of trouble just by using that voice. "Tomorrow, just do your thing and talk to him. Be chill. Let him get used to the sound of your voice when it's not yelling at him to get his nose out of the garbage."

  
How did Clint know…? "Okay," Phil agrees, nodding into the phone. "Be chill. I can do that."

  
"You can totally be chill," Clint says, the exact same way he'd said that Phil was totally fine, it was just a cough. "Then tomorrow night, when he's chill and you're chill, go sit next to him. Don't look at him. Just sit next to him and start scratching his butt or his chest or something, until he tells you to stop."

  
Phil frowns, unsure that he's well-versed enough in dog speak to figure that out unless growling or biting is involved. "How will I know he's telling me to stop?"

  
The Leadership Voice is calm, soothing, and matter-of-fact. "He'll turn away, or lean away from you, or get up and walk away. Just let him do his thing, and then try it again later, until he gets the hint that you're, you know…"

  
"Chill?" Phil asks wryly, and is rewarded with another chuckle. "What if he doesn't tell me to stop?"

  
"Then you'll be petting that dog until the sun comes up," Clint says, and Phil is suddenly, one hundred percent sure that Clint has done that very thing. On more than one occasion.

  
"I don't know that I can go for that long, but I'll try," Phil agrees. He's not sure it will work. In fact, he's pretty sure that Lucky will be telling him to stop even trying…. Pretty much until the sun comes up. But it's worth a shot.

  
"I believe in you," Clint says. Then there are noises in the background, someone speaking to Clint, and the unmistakable sound of Clint pressing the phone into his shoulder for a moment, as Phil has so often seen him do. He comes back after a few seconds and says, "Well, that's all the time I have, gotta go do some super secret mission stuff."

  
"Alright," Phi says, completely not alright with that.

  
"Alright," Clint echoes, clearly sharing that same sentiment. "Good luck on your mission. Take your medicine. Love you! Bye!"

  
The call ends. Phil pulls the phone from his ear and stares down at it, utterly flabbergasted. He's… Clint's never…

  
Love.

  
He feels his whole world tilt, and he doesn't think it's from vertigo this time. It's something else. Here he's spent five months, one week and five days waiting for Clint to tell him to leave, and instead, Clint says… He's sick and miserable and dripping ugly amounts of phlegm and can't make friends with a labrador retriever, and still Clint says...

  
Phil's throat gets tight, and he reaches for the tissues. Stupid… Stupid bronchitis. Making his nose all runny. Making his eyes wet. Jesus. These medicines are useless.

  
\--

  
Phil wakes up on Day Three feeling… slightly less awful. His fever's gone, the chills are gone, and while he does spend a large chunk of his morning shower emptying his lungs with his eyes firmly closed, he actually has the energy to make it to the shower. So, that's something.

  
The shower leaves him drained, so he's soon back on the couch, huddled under one or two fewer blankets than yesterday and sipping some hot tea (which he still, sadly, cannot taste). His phone is in the center of a cleared area on the coffee table, but he knows it's not going to ring anytime soon. Clint's in the thick of the mission by now, and he won't have time to call home again. Not for the next few days, at least. Which Phil is fine with.

  
Totally fine with.

  
He's got medicine, he's being well taken care of. He doesn't need his boyfriend to call every five minutes to explain that when he said, "Love you," what he really meant was… What?

  
He rolls his eyes at himself at the thought, sips his tea, and turns on the television, settling in to wait until Jerry and Lucky are back from their morning walk.

  
\--

  
"Why do you do that dance in front of the door every morning?" Phil asks, finally giving into his curiosity before Jerry can head out again. Lucky is munching away happily on a bowl of kibble.

  
Jerry blinks at him confusedly. "What, with Lucky?"

  
"Yeah. Teasing him with the open door, but not letting him go through."

  
"Teasing?" Jerry frowns, shaking his head. "No, it's-- I guess it could look like that from the outside. It's more putting him in the right mindset for the walk. How he goes through the door is how he goes through the walk. So he doesn't go through the door until he's calm. That's what that is."

  
"Oh," Phil replies, considering his conversation with Clint -- the part before the L-bomb, anyway. "It's your way of telling him to be chill."

  
Jerry snorts. "That's Clint's word for it, but yeah."

  
"Why doesn't-- I've never seen Clint do that with him."

  
"Have you met the guy?" Jerry asks, rolling his eyes. "Lucky is usually the one telling him to calm down."

  
"Oh," Phil says, and thinks about the few times he's seen Clint any Lucky interact, the way Lucky seems to approach Clint at random for kisses or belly rubs or attention. He'd assumed those times were arbitrary, but looking back now, he realizes it's always been when Clint was tense, or anxious, or upset. And Lucky would take it upon himself to… fix that. "Yeah. I get it, now. Thanks for explaining."

  
\--

  
Phil begins part one of Operation: Making Friends once Jerry leaves.

  
"Alright, time for more medicine. Yay medicine!" Phil says at eleven o'clock. Lucky perks an ear up but doesn't move, otherwise.

  
"I'm getting hungry. What do you think, Lucky? Time for some cereal?" Phil asks at noon. Lucky wanders into the kitchen with him and sniffs around his empty food bowl. He watches Phil eat, staring from a few feet away as he usually does. Once the bowl is empty, he's back to his nap on the chair.

  
"As much as I love HGTV, I think it's time to turn this off and have a nap. It seems to be working out pretty well for you, at least," Phil says at around two-thirty.

  
"Clint said he loved me," Phil says at quarter after five. "Like it wasn't a big deal. Or like… like me worrying about you made him realize it, or made him want to say it, or made him unable to keep himself from saying it. Which… would make it a big deal."

  
"Simone should be here soon with the goulash. I hope I'll be able to taste it today. You think you'll get some more butt scratches tonight? I myself don't really understand the appeal. Must be a dog thing."

  
\--

  
After Simone drops off dinner and Phil has managed to eat as much of the (tragically tasteless, Simone's culinary efforts notwithstanding) goulash as his still-sick stomach will allow, he begins part two of Operation: Making Friends.

  
He starts by taking a very deep breath and letting it out slowly, carefully enough that it won't trigger a cough attack. Clint was very firm on the "chill" approach to dogs; the deep exhale takes some of his tension with it, helping him feel a little more calm, a little more centered. Not quite all the way to chill, but closer. Hopefully close enough.

  
Lucky is sitting on the floor in front of the window, watching the street with vague disinterest. Phil walks over, curving his path so that he's not walking straight at the dog, and sits down on the floor next to him so that they're both facing the glass.

  
Lucky sighs. Phil sighs (carefully).

  
After a few minutes, Phil raises his right hand to scratch gently at the fur on Lucky's chest. He keeps his face turned almost fully away and watches out of the corner of the eye for any "Stop" signals.

  
None appear, so Phil keeps scratching.

  
After about ten minutes, Lucky finally moves. He slides his legs forward until his belly hits the floor, dislodging Phil's hand. Then he rolls onto his left side, closer to Phil.

  
Phil freezes. Is this a stop signal? Lucky moved, but he didn't move away, really. But he definitely moved despite the chest scratches, so should Phil reach out and try again, or leave him alone, or--?

  
Lucky turns his head to look at Phil, in a way that could almost be… expectant? Phil doesn't move, terrified of getting it wrong and mortally offending the dog for all time.

  
Lucky rolls fully onto his back and bats Phil's hand with his paw, and this time there's no way to interpret that expression as anything other than, "Well? Get on with it, then!"

  
Relief hits him like a gust of wind through a newly opened door. Phil smiles, heady with it, and feels the rest of his tension melt away. "More scratches, Luck?"

  
Another impatient paw swipe, and Phil raises his hand and gets to work. Looks like he might be doing this until sunrise, after all.

  
\--

  
A few nights later, Phil comes half awake when he feels the bed dip behind him. At first he thinks it's just Lucky coming back into bed after his 2 a.m. patrol. Then he realizes that no, it can't be Lucky, because Lucky is currently curled up in front of him with his head resting on Phil's thigh. Which means--

  
"Hey," Clint murmurs quietly. "Didn't mean to wake you."

  
"You're home," Phil responds, still partially asleep and completely comfortable. He hears some shuffling, and then there's Clint, under the covers with him, slipping an arm around his waist to spoon up against him.

  
He has a fleeting image of three spoons in a drawer all nestled together, except one of the spoons is covered in yellow fur, and he chuckles.

  
"What's so funny?" Clint asks in his ear.

  
"Tell you in the morning," Phil says, burrowing deeper into the blankets and Clint's body, content with the world. "Sleep now. Love you."

  
Clint draws a quick breath, and his arm tightens around Phil. "I, uh. I love you, too."

  
Phil hums, already mostly asleep again. "G'night."

  
A kiss is pressed behind his ear. Then, "Goodnight, Phil. Goodnight, Lucky."

  
Lucky starts snoring.

 


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

Phil wakes up coughing in the morning, as usual, and wrapped up in sweatshirt-clad arms, which is new. He eases slowly out of Clint’s embrace and rolls to the edge of the bed so that he can get up, stumble to the bathroom, and take his cough medicine. Clint makes a sleepy noise of protest behind him, and it warms Phil down to his toes. Lucky makes a similar noise, stands up from his spot at their feet, and starts turning in circles, trying to find a new, comfortable sleeping position.

Pills and syrups taken, Phil comes back into the room in time to see Lucky steal his spot – stretched out alongside Clint right in the middle of the bed.

“Oh, come on,” Phil groans, easing onto the few inches of space left on the mattress.

Clint chuckles and starts rubbing Lucky’s stomach. The dog stretches, front feet pressing into Phil’s kidneys, and yawns, before closing his eyes and resting his head on Phil’s pillow.

“It’s a good thing you’re cute,” Phil says, moving Lucky’s feet out of the way so that he can try to lie down fully.

“Cuteness is his secret weapon,” Clint replies, as if Lucky were the only one in the room with that particular talent. “Gets him out of all sorts of trouble.”

“Like dog, like owner, I guess,” Phil says. His hand reaches out, completely of its own accord, and joins Clint in the belly scratches. Lucky appears to melt even further into the mattress. “Cute, naps a lot, likes to lick things inappropriately.”

“You know it,” Clint says, a smile in his voice even though most of his face is hidden by either pillow or dog fur.

Phil takes a moment to just look at him: grey hoodie, hair sticking up in every direction, cheeks a little rosy from sunburn, a slight scrape on the back of his neck that’s too shallow to need a bandage. One foot has snuck out from the mountain of blankets he’d piled on the bed for Phil a week ago; Phil kicks the covers back over it, and Clint mumbles, “Thanks.”

“Can’t have you getting sick,” Phil says. “I called dibs already for this mission.”

Clint snorts. “Mission’s over, everything’s up for grabs. Besides, you’re feeling better.”

“I am, except for the Cough That Would Not Die.” Phil sobers for a moment, his hand stilling. “Everything go okay?”

Lucky paws at him to get back to the belly rubs, even as Clint says, “Oh yeah. Smooth sailing the whole way.”

“Then what’s that mark on your neck from?” Phil asks, a little more command in his voice, now. He reaches out, hovering his hand over the scrape, before lightly resting it further down on Clint’s warm neck.

Clint’s cheeks gain a bit more color. He buries his face further into Lucky’s side and mumbles a response Phil can’t quite make out.

“What was that?”

Clint huffs, then raises his head to look Phil straight in the eye and states, “I didn’t secure my gear right on the ‘jet and everything fell on my head during takeoff.”

Phil presses his lips together and takes even breaths so that he doesn’t bust out into laughter and trigger a coughing episode. When he feels he has his lips (and cheeks, and voice, and breath) under control, he replies, “That was very irresponsible of you. I hope Sitwell noted that in the report.”

Clint lays his head back down and rolls onto his back. “Nah, he was too busy cracking up. I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it by now.”

Phil sincerely doubts this is the case, but he lets it go. “Well, I’m glad you all had a good time without me.”

Clint hums noncommittally. “How’d everything go, here?” he asks.

Phil smiles and raises his hand to stroke Lucky’s head. Lucky presses his face into the touch, then turns his head to lick Phil’s wrist. Phil glances up and catches Clint’s eye.

Clint is smirking, utterly self-satisfied and utterly adorable. “Not so bad, then?”

A hundred possible comments flash through Phil’s mind, ranging from sarcastic to melodramatic to whiny to brutally honest. He chooses the last one: “I love you.”

Clint’s whole body seems to relax into the mattress, the same way Lucky’s did a few minutes ago when the quantity of belly rubs doubled (Phil immediately commits the image to memory). The flush in Clint’s cheeks deepens to crimson, and he opens his mouth to respond.

A hacking cough comes out.

By the time the fit ends, Lucky has left the room, shooting a dirty look in their direction on his way out, and Clint has curled up in a tight ball in the center of the bed. Once Clint has managed to take a few careful, clear breaths, Phil helps him to sit up and passes him his half-full bottle of water.

Clint takes a few swallows, and when take goes okay, he drinks the rest and sets the empty bottle down in his lap. He wipes his nose with his sleeve and looks up at Phil. “It’s, uh…”

He trails off, and Phil finishes, “Just a cough?”

Clint winces, and Phil leans forward to press his forehead to Clint’s, holding it there for a long moment before shifting to press a light kiss to his lips. “I’ll get you some Robitussin.”

He shifts to get out of bed again, and stops when Clint’s hand encircles his wrist. Clint’s touch as gentle as his soul. Phil turns back to look. There’s a little bit of sweat dampening Clint’s forehead. His nose is red and starting to run. His eyes are bleary and red. He’s beautiful.

“I love you, too,” Clint says, and his voice is a little bit raw from the coughing. “I really do. And I… I’m really glad you stayed. Here. This week.”

“Me too,” Phil says, and amazes him how much it’s true. “Thank you for making sure I was taken care of.”

Clint raises his hand and cocks a small, but no less jaunty, salute, then flops onto his back with a sigh. Lucky pokes his head back in the door, probably checking to see if the ruckus has died down. He steps fully into the room, trots up to the bed, and leaps up onto it – right on top of Clint.

“Ohh, those were my balls, dog!” Clint groans, pushing Lucky off his lap.

Phil heads for the bedroom door, making a list in his head:

  1. Cough medicine
  2. Pain medicine
  3. Ice pack



 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all desert_neon's fault.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr me, baby!](http://bit.ly/2g9iHkp)  
> [Follow my #baily tag](http://bit.ly/2fHepjK) for frequent photos/videos of my own little butt-scratches-demander.


End file.
